


Impostor Syndrome

by Trivena_Butterfly



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Dark, Failed Rescue, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Objectification, Patricide, Sexual thoughts, What-If, everything goes horribly wrong, non-con overtones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivena_Butterfly/pseuds/Trivena_Butterfly
Summary: The penny-sparklies insist on portraying Tarvek as a hero; he's just as certain that he's not. But just for a moment, he wishes hehadbeen.And if he was? Why, things would have beenverydifferent, of course. Heroesdie.
Comments: 50
Kudos: 19





	1. Regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoryMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryMercury/gifts).



> I'm still writing this, so the rating, warnings, and tags may change. All I can promise is that it starts dark and isn't likely to get nicer. And it will contain Lucrezia, who's a whole bunch of warnings all to herself.

The hour had grown late as Tarvek read, both baffled and intrigued. Seffie had insisted (and he’d acquiesced, since Seffie could be _very_ persistent when she had her heart set on something, and this was such a minor thing that there was no point fighting her over it) that he needed to read the latest penny-sparklies, starring heavily-fictionalised versions of himself and Agatha, alongside depictions of Gilgamesh, Zeetha, Othar (much to his irritation), and so many other people. And yet, though recognisable, they got so much _wrong_. The attack of the giant rabbits, for example; or the breaking of the siege by the Knights of Jove (and he still felt like strangling his cousin for the sheer idiocy of that ploy). He wasn’t even _there_ when they defeated the King of the Silver Lands, for heaven’s sake.

And they kept portraying him as some kind of _hero_. Some kind of noble idealisation who’d rebelled against his father, freed Agatha from durance vile at Sturmhalten, and gone on to help restore her to her castle and her heritage… Ok, so he _had_ done some of that, but… _definitely_ not the way the novels told it.

He’d shelved the books, intending to likewise put them out of his mind, but they nagged at him regardless, keeping him from sleeping. Agatha seemed to have long since forgiven him, but he still felt guilty over the way he had treated her at Sturmhalten. Manipulated her. Lied to her. Betrayed her. Waited, and watched, and hoped for an opportunity, while Agatha’s situation grew worse and more hopeless, and Lucrezia’s stronger and more secure, by the minute.

All in the name of trying to rescue her while protecting his own skin.

What if he’d reacted differently? What if he’d _acted?_

~†~

Tarvek took up a napkin, and gently wiped the torte from Olga- _Agatha’s_ \- face. A small, distant part of him noted with amusement that the cake fork had found its way into her hair.

“Hm. I think I used a bit too much on her,” his father, Prince Aaronev Wilhelm, mused, eyeing the decanter.

Tarvek tried to hide his tension. The girl- no, woman- had admitted to being the Child they had been looking for; every detail matched. As a mere actress, her voice alone would have advanced their mission plenty, would have allowed them complete, direct control of the Lady’s creatures instead of having to rely on the increasingly-tenuous goodwill of her priestesses. But as the Holy Child, there was only one possible fate Father could have in mind for her.

And… it would kill her. The beautiful woman now smiling vaguely in his direction (“ _You’re very cute._ ” and he smiled back in spite of himself) would cease to exist, replaced by the object of his father’s obsession.

He couldn’t allow it.

Tarvek returned the napkin to the table, and reached up to disentangle the fork. Then, in a blur that only the trained eye of a Smoke Knight could possibly catch, he flung the fork in a smooth, knife-straight line at his father’s face.

...or, he remembered belatedly as Anevka’s fork knocked it aside mid-flight, the mechanical eye of a clank.

But it was too late; he was committed now. More blades were already in the air before the fork fell: three steak knives, a pâté knife, and a long-tined fish fork that he’d secreted during dinner, aimed at his father’s eyes, his sister’s voicebox, and the quickwitted servant who was already moving - _he_ ought to get a raise for that alone, not that Tarvek would be in any position to arrange that. Even before any of them found - or were deflected from - their targets, Tarvek was already on the move, scooping Agatha up into a bridal carry that he would much rather have performed on a more... _auspicious_ occasion. And with her wearing something far better than this atrocious cheap gown.

None of the servants had any hope, of course. Neither they nor the guards had the training to keep up with a Smoke Knight, even a poor one; and he was far from poor. Killing them was a shame, but he would find no help from them alive. Halfway to the door, of course, he had to duck a small armory’s worth of knives as his family responded to his sudden, yet surely not unexpected, betrayal - poisoned, no doubt, which _always_ threw off the balance just the tiniest amount, and Father was dreadfully out of practice. Anekva, he knew, _had_ tried to keep herself in training, and her clank body was inhumanly fast and strong, but he’d had some trouble fine-tuning the- _ow_ \- throwing knife to the left scapula, that wasn’t good. And a second one had cost him a few strands of hair, which would now be intolerably asymmetric for _months_. Tch. _Sloppy_ , he chided himself, and ducked into a corridor.

He needed to get them out of Sturmhalten _fast_. The secret passages wouldn’t do; every single one of them required at least one hand free to operate the entrance, and he didn’t think he would have time to waste propping the semi-lucid Heterodyne against a wall while he did. At the moment, she didn’t even seem to have the presence of mind to cling to him as he ran. Besides, most of the hidden passages came out in places that would cause awkward questions at best, or would lead him straight to the tunnels where the Geisterdamen hid at worst. And that would inevitably bring on the exact unconscionable outcome he was trying to avert.

No, there was only one viable exit. He would have to take the main door.

Tarvek put on a burst of speed as he neared the entrance hall, launching himself from a skirting board so that he could bounce off the opposite wall and kick the guard’s chin hard enough to shatter teeth. That his landing took him through the inner door and into the hall itself was a tidy little bonus.

The downside, of course, was that the entrance hall was also guarded on the _inside_ , the man he’d just brought down a mere token and mostly there to carry messages. “Stay here, and _stay down_ ,” he murmured urgently to Agatha, hurriedly setting her against the nearest wall. And then there was no more time to think about her, for the guards were upon him. Tarvek took a moment to regret helping his father install the new remote-alarm system as he dived under a halberd to break its owner’s arm, commandeering the weapon long enough to block the sword of a second guard. If he hadn’t come up with a way of quickly alerting the guard to dangers _within_ the castle, they would have been long since on their way, and without having had to kill - he caught up a dropped sword, swung, connected, ducked again - four _more_ guards, good, loyal men probably.

The world seemed to slow down as he fought, and everything became crystal and clockwork. Step _here_ , do _this_ , the outcome will be _that_. He watched as his body moved with perfect clarity and precision around the predictable and _so slow_ world, as if he had been underwater before and only now was moving freely in the unhindering air, while everything and everyone around him was still trapped in the cloying, betraying sea.

And then there was nobody left to fight. Bodies and blood and dropped weapons surrounded him, and Tarvek briefly wished he had the time to check them for anything useful. But no; he couldn’t spare so much as a moment. _He had to get out_.

“Oh my!” Agatha’s mild exclamation reminded him of _why_ he had just killed so many of his father’s men. “Do you do this often?”

“More often than I’d like,” he admitted, lifting her to her feet. But she still wasn’t steady enough to move on her own; his father really _had_ overdone it when he drugged her. Well, it couldn’t be helped; they had to leave. He swung her back into his arms, prompting a light giggle that warmed him like sunshine on his spine, and _ran_.

He reached the main door as he heard the first shout behind him; his father’s voice, raised with all the authority of the sovereign prince, all the command of a Spark, and all the fury of a thwarted madman.  
  
“ _TARVEK! I ORDER YOU TO STOP!_ ”

He ignored it, and hurtled through the portal, leaping down the steps, dodging side-to-side to avoid the weapons of the startled outer guards, who had done their duty and stayed at their posts even as their fellows inside died swiftly to the unimaginable betrayal of one of their own protectees.

He reached the lightning moat as the first arrows hit the ground around him. The moat itself was active, but the drawbridge was down; it hadn’t occurred to anybody that they might need to raise it. His path to escape was clear.

A few more arrows thudded into the wood beside him. Tarvek wasn’t worried (“Are they shooting at us?” Agatha wondered absently in his arms); with sufficient practice, dodging arrows took very little thought. The slight whoosh of their passage was always warning enough.

He reached the street, still populated by a handful of people going about whatever business they had that didn’t require the light of day. He vaguely registered their surprised stares; well, it wasn’t every day that your crown prince fled his own residence with a beautiful woman in his arms.

And then there was no more room for thought, as searing _pain_ took its place; worse than the poisons forced on him by the Masters of Smoke, worse than the heartsick hole when his mother died, worse than the terrible despair and loss when he’d realised that all his work to save Anevka was failing, wasted, lost…

The world crystallized, shattered, and clarified again. There were cobbles under his elbows, close-set, a road. His torso was lying on something soft… no, some _one_ , he was still holding Agatha (“This is very nice but you’re rather heavy,” she remarked in his ear). His back ached and burned abominably. His legs refused to respond when he tried to climb to his feet. And he could smell something burning.

That couldn’t possibly mean anything good. 

Tarvek let go of Agatha enough to get some leverage, and push himself onto his side, half upright, enough to turn and see what was behind them.

His father, standing on the steps of Sturmhalten, his face so thunderously angry that Tarvek would not have wondered had lightning crackled from the sky and wreathed him in fire.

His father, holding a deathray, glaring at his son as though he had been the cause of the ruination of all his hopes and dreams, his plans and plots. Well, he very nearly had, hadn’t he? He had tried to save her, and come so close… Tarvek’s hand found Agatha’s, held her, wishing that he’d been faster, better… “I’m so sorry. I tried…” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if she heard him; he wasn’t sure if he’d truly even spoken through the pain. It was too late to matter.

His father, aiming-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RoryMercury has done an amazing illustration for this chapter: [Flight from Fate.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844211)


	2. Porcelain Smile

Anevka waited. She had become quite practised at waiting. Waiting for her father to finish his latest experiment. Waiting for Tarvek to finish the latest repairs to her puppet. Waiting to discover the fate of the latest girl Father had tried in that machine, whether it be the destruction of her mind or merely her death.

This time the wait was not long. Mere minutes, in fact, had passed since her brother had fled the hall with the newest girl to attract their father’s attention; the actress who claimed to be a Heterodyne, and, by all accounts, had given a compelling impression onstage of the Lady Lucrezia. Anevka was not agile enough to follow when their father pursued him; or rather, her bearers would have taken too long to lift her catafalque and give chase on her behalf, the clank puppet creating a poor illusion that she herself stood the slightest chance of catching up. So she waited. Waited, and thought.

Her father stormed through the doors, his face purple with rage, a deathray in hand, followed by several guards. One of them, she was mildly disappointed to see, carried the girl, still limp from overindulging on the drugged wine. The girl who, by her mere existence, could still spoil everything.

Tarvek was _not_ with them, being dragged back by his ear like a disobedient child or nursing another broken arm. How odd.

“ ** _Come_** **,** ” Father commanded, clearly deep in fugue.

There was still a chance she could stop this. They could use the girl some _other_ way, and not as another sacrifice to the machine. “Father,” Anevka began.

“ ** _It’s her. At last._** ”

Well. There’d be no getting anything coherent or useful out of him now. And Tarvek must be just as certain, or he wouldn’t have… “Father, where is Tar-?”

She stopped, midsentence, as she noticed something dripping from where Fräulein Heterodyne’s hand hung, lax. It was positioned oddly, and there were far too many fingers. And then Anevka's long experience of autopsies and dissections asserted itself, and the picture resolved into a new pattern, a truer one. Half of those fingers were clenched tight, at the wrong angle to belong to the girl, and the dripping was clearly the familiar gathering of drops of blood from a severed- oh _dear_.

And at the rear of this parody of a procession, one of the household guards was carrying a limp, lifeless form, head charred beyond all recognition, only the familiar clothing to bear testimony that it had been her brother. Even in death, his dress remained impeccable, save for the cuff soaked in blood where they must have had to remove his hand to separate his corpse from the girl he’d tried to save.

“ ** _He would keep me from my work. From my duty. HOW DARE HE._** ” Father continued ranting as he led them to the chapel. Anevka gestured to her bearers to follow, and caught up with him.

“Father, are you sure?” She went through with the same charade they performed every time, knowing what the answer would be. “If you’re wrong…”

He rounded on her at the door. “ ** _Foolish girl! Her voice is perfect. The people obey her. She ADMITTED to being the child. IT. IS. HER!_** ”

Well then. Anevka’s duty was clear. The machine that had destroyed so many girls, had so nearly destroyed _her_ , had found its final component. Her brother had seen its truth and in his attempt to thwart it, had himself been sacrificed to its cause. The Lady, to whose devotion most of her life had been dedicated, would return. She was left with no choice.

For the first time, Anevka was thankful for the limited range of expression her puppet was capable of. Her smile was perfectly placid as she offered its arm to her unsuspecting father, briefly regretting what would soon become of the carefully-coiffed wig and expensive gown that she had dressed it in for dinner. “In that case, shall we proceed into the chapel?”

Father took her arm, with a manic, triumphant grin that was just barely better than the furious rictus he had worn a moment ago.

With the other hand, Anevka reached up to his face, and grasped his chin, affectionate for the last time. She gave him a look that she wished could have passed for jubilation, and engaged the clank’s close-contact electric self-defence mechanisms. She destroyed him as he had once destroyed her.

Anevka’s heart was as cold as her father burned bright.

“Oh my!” A faint exclamation drew Anevka’s attention back to their guest. Ah, she was looking somewhat more alert now. She may even have been capable of standing independently. “Did you do that for _me?_ ”

Oh, she could _kill_ Tarvek, if he hadn’t gone and gotten Father to do that already, and so thoroughly at that. She _needed_ another Spark; much though it pained her to admit it even to herself, Anevka could not do this alone. “Don’t be ridiculous, you silly girl. You could still be useful to me, but my idiot brother has done his best to ruin everything. You-” Anevka snapped at the footman supporting the girl. “See our guest to some suitable accommodation.” Hopefully, she would remain comfortably drugged and compliant long enough to reach a useful arrangement. “And you-” she looked disdainfully at the corpse one of the guards was still carrying like a fool. _An empty shell, like any other._ “Take that to my lab.”

Anevka was done waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blaming RoryMercury for Tarvek's death grip. That was all her idea.


	3. The Holy Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you it wasn't going to get nicer.

“Yeah? And what happens next, Herr Pessimistic? Do you really think she’ll just sit around and mope over you? She hardly _knows_ you!”

Tarvek turned over, but the thought wouldn’t go away. Even in his imagination, Violetta did her best to keep him cut to size. And she was right; Agatha had hardly known him. She'd hardly known _anything._

~†~

Warm.

Everything felt warm, and nice. It was chilly on the road, and Agatha welcomed the comfort of the soft bed, smooth sheets, and solid walls. They were a luxury that she hadn’t felt since the Baron had taken her from Beetleburg, all those months ago. Even the sparse quarters provided to her on _Castle Wulfenbach_ had been more comfortable than the circus wagon, if substantially less welcoming. And the dinner she had just enjoyed had been far richer and more varied than she was used to, as well, so many courses that she remembered most of it as little more than a blur.

There had been wine, too, she recalled, and she was certain she had drunk rather more than she was accustomed to. It was the most likely explanation for why she was having trouble remembering how she had gotten to bed, or even where ‘bed’ _was_.

Agatha opened her eyes. The bed she was lying on was neatly aligned in the centre of an elegant bedroom, carefully decorated to remind the occupant that they were sleeping in a wealthy castle while still being somehow completely devoid of personality. A guest room; nobody had lived here for long enough to impress themselves into its walls. And she was still dressed, in the seafoam gown that Countess Marie had carefully sewn her into. That nice young prince - Tarvek, wasn’t it? - hadn’t taken advantage of her, then. How kind of him. Maybe she would get to talk with him later; she was already beginning to have a few ideas of what might be wrong with Tinka, and surely he would be eager to look at Van Rijn’s notebook, check her ideas. She would have to have it brought up from her wagon. If he was _very_ nice, she might even let him keep it.

Something nagged at her. Something about Tarvek… some reason that he wouldn’t see the book, wouldn’t be able to fix Tinka, or meet Moxana… But why? Had something happened to him? Agatha sat up, and reached for her glasses as she fumbled about in her memory. What had _happened_ at dinner? She had talked a lot, she was sure, but she was having so much trouble remembering specifics.

No, it wasn’t dinner that was at issue, she was oddly certain about that. Whatever it was, it had happened _after_.

There was something tugging at her hand. No, _holding_ it. She turned to see what it was, and it all came flooding back.

_“Stay here, and_ stay down _,” he’d said, and he was trying to protect her, although she wasn’t quite sure what from, but she was quite happy to stay comfortable where he’d put her and he seemed so sure he’d keep her safe, and then everything had been a blur of movement and running until they were outside and on the ground and something was burning and burning and BURNING and blood on the ground and knives and they_ **_cut his HAND OFF! They didn’t have to do that! Red fire, he might have disagreed with them on something but they didn’t have to kill him! He’d liked her, and she’d liked him, and maybe they could have worked together but now they never would, and his brilliance and light and skill was gone to ash and dust and bone, and-_ **

There was a knock at the door. Agatha blinked, and looked down. Tarvek’s hand was cradled in her lap, the stump of the wrist neatly bound with strips of the bedsheet that she didn’t remember tearing.

The knock came again. “Lady, are you alright?” The voice coming through the door sounded female, and worried. Agatha hadn’t realised she’d been shouting.

She opened the door a crack, and peered through. The woman outside was as pale as the moon, and had a robe clutched around her, as if she had scrambled out of bed to answer Agatha’s useless cries for justice.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Agatha snuffled.

The pale woman seemed just as startled to see her. “Lady? Are you hurt?”

Hurt? Well, physically she seemed to be fine, although her eyes were a bit sore.

“No. No I’m _not_. I’m _angry_.” Her cheeks were damp, but she didn’t remember crying. She swiped at them. She was _not_ crying over some prince she hardly knew, in front of some stranger in a castle that didn’t seem nearly so friendly as it had a few hours ago.

“I am sorry,” the woman said stiffly, the apology sounding foreign to her lips. “I was mistaken. Your voice sounds very like... somebody I once knew.”

“You’re the second one,” Agatha muttered bitterly. “Prince Aaronev thought I was somebody else, too.” ( _Lightning and flame burning like a beacon was that for me no!_ ) she pushed him out of her mind. She hadn’t much liked the way the Prince had looked at her during dinner, almost drooling into his plate like some of the students at TPU had over their books of _very inappropriate_ pictures. She very much hoped she would be able to get out of here without having to see him again.

“Did he indeed.” The woman sounded weary and resigned. “The Prince has been known to be mistaken many times.”

“You can add another one to the list, then.” Her voice trembled. “He… he killed him. Prince Tarvek’s dead. He killed him and I don’t even know _why_.”

“Master Tarvek _dead?_ ” The woman had been turning away to leave, but this seemed to have caught her attention.

“He just… _shot_ him! Like he was some kind of thief! He was just trying to get me out of here! I don’t like this place anymore and _I don’t want to be here!_ ” Oh dear, she was getting hysterical again. Agatha took a deep breath, and clutched his hand to her chest. She might not have her locket giving her headaches anymore, but she needed to _think_.

The woman thought for a moment, then nodded, as if reaching some sort of conclusion. “I am Vrin. Come with me; I know some of the secret passages in the castle. I can lead you out.”

“How do you know so much about the castle?” Agatha asked as Vrin knocked on a neighbouring door.

“Sona Eotain, Sona Shurdlu. Meh fig zin niktik seg Unat Plin,” she called.

There was a joyful cry from within the room, and Vrin turned to Agatha as the sounds of somebody hastily getting dressed filtered through the door. “We have been seeking a child for many years, one who was stolen from us. Prince Aaronev and his Order have long been aiding us in our quest.”

The door was flung open to reveal two Geisterdamen, as alike as twins, dressed in the same peculiar layered garments as the two she had seen in the Wastelands. One of them pointed and gaped at Agatha. “Zoy! Hitcha twon niktik ‘actors’!”

“Eeen? Hif ni-” the other began to argue.

“Medok!” Vrin said sharply, and they subsided. “We go now.”

As they started off, the two Geisterdamen fell in behind them, almost like a honour guard.

“Since the beginning of all things, we have served our Eternal Lady,” Vrin resumed as they walked. “When the gods went to war, our Goddess entrusted us with the Holy Child and charged us with her protection, but the time of Prophecy was upon us. We were blind. The Great Battle came, and we failed. We lost the Child. We lost _everything_. There were no more prophecies; our world was over. But our Mistress returned, and sent us here, to seek the Child. And so we have sought, ever since.”

“Children grow up,” Agatha observed. Surely they would have thought of that? But change was such an easy thing to forget. “How long has it been? Would you even recognise her?”

Vrin sighed. "We would not," she replied, regretful. "She would be eighteen now.”

Then they knew they were no longer looking for a child, at least, even if they still called her that. Out loud, Agatha noted: “That’s not very much to go on. _I’m_ eighteen.”

“Indeed. As are so many other girls,” Vrin snorted dryly at the obviousness. “We also know that she will be a Spark. Do you know many?”

“No.” Agatha shook her head. “There aren’t many at all; they say most girls with the Spark just disappear. Don’t you have anything more concrete?”

“Our Lady in this world was known as Lucrezia Mongfish. Perhaps her name is known to you?” Vrin queried. “Aaronev knew her well.”

Agatha stopped dead, hardly noticing that she was clutching Tarvek’s hand to her breast as a child would a stuffed animal.

“I am Agatha Heterodyne,” she whispered into the silent corridor. “My father was Bill Heterodyne, and my mother was Lucrezia Mongfish.”

“Twerlik…” one of the Geisterdamen breathed.

“Yes…” There was a new light in Vrin's eyes when she spoke. “If you are truly she whom we seek, then it is you we are sworn to protect.” She gestured peremptorily. “Come.”

Agatha followed. “But where are we going? I think I recognise this corridor.”

“Before we leave this place, we must first prove that you are, indeed, the Holy Child. Aaronev was her ally in this world for many years; it was he who was entrusted with our Lady's most sacred device, and it is installed… here.” Vrin ushered Agatha reverently towards the doorway-

_Anevka and Aaronev, framed in that doorway wreathed in flame, lighting and fire, burning, like a bonfire… Tarvek had tried to get her out of here and they had killed him for it; he liked her and he must have known what awaited her in there, and now Anevka had set her own father aflame rather than let it come to pass._

_Where was she? Surely she would not permit this; she should be here, stopping them..._

“No-” Agatha backed away, shaking her head.

_Tried_ to back away; the two Geisterdamen were behind her, blocking her path.

“This is your sacred purpose,” Vrin was saying. “You were brought into the world for this, and this alone, and you _will_ fulfil it. Eotain! Shurdlu! Hif ni!” she snapped, flicking a hand.

“Bo, Klazma!”

Their hands closed on her wrists; she fought, but there were two of them, and they were strong, stronger even than Zeetha's warrior’s grip.

“No! Stop! _Let go of me!_ ”

And just as suddenly, they released her.

“Lady!” Vrin gasped, and faltered. Agatha smiled.

_Minions listen when a Spark speaks. They were_ her _minions, my mother’s, weren’t they? Maybe they'll listen to_ me _now, instead of dragging me around like a child._

“That's better. Now, you said you would get me out of here. So get me out.”

“No.” Vrin's expression changed as she straightened. “You are not her.” The priestess’ hand met Agatha's face hard, once, twice, and she crumpled, dazed, held upright only by the other Geisterdamen’s renewed grip on her arms.

“Not _yet_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Geisterdamen's dialogue was a pain in the rear to write, because we have almost no translated vocab for their language and have to guess what they're saying from context. From those guesses, though, we have enough for complete sentences, even if we have to make up the odd word.


	4. Speech With The Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said nobody's coming out of this one happy. ~~I was wrong. _One_ person's happy.~~ I need to stop promising things before the story's finished.

The most flattering series billed itself as “The Romantic Adventures of the Storm King and Lady Heterodyne”. The earliest volumes had been written while they were still trapped in the time field over Mechanicsburg, Tarvek’s own life hanging in an impossible balance while Agatha crept imperceptibly closer back to reality, but that hadn’t prevented the authors from imagining their own versions of what might have happened. In fact, it seemed to have _encouraged_ them, their tales embroidered and over-romanticised into something nearly unrecognisable as bearing any relation to actual events.

> _Tarvek held his sword before him, steady, as Anne clutched his hand, terrified._
> 
> _“You took my friends from me. You took my cousin. I will not let you take my sister as well.”_
> 
> _The Clank Queen of Clocks hissed, the delicately-engineered brass of her voice engine clicking gently against the pneumatics. “It is not them that I want, but you, and you alone; none shall have you but me!”_
> 
> _Tarvek pushed his sister further behind him._
> 
> _“No. You are no longer the lady I knew, the lady who once willingly gave her life to defend me. I thought by building you I had saved her, but instead I merely condemned her to a terrible echo of who she had been.”_

Tarvek threw the book into the wall.

~†~

Anevka had made plans for the Holy Child; _good_ plans, practical plans, plans that did not involve restoring the Lady Lucrezia that her father had been so disgustingly obsessed with. They even took advantage of the voice analysis equipment that he had so obligingly installed and maintained all over the castle.

But she had needed Tarvek for them.

Analysis had always been _his_ strength, not hers, and besides this clank was _his_ creation; attempting to modify any part of it had always been best left to him. Anevka had little interest in metal and machines. She preferred biology, anatomy, the study of how _people_ worked and fit together; specialised in it, even.

But Anevka was also practical; one problem could be used to solve another. Tarvek may be dead, and she may not have his gift for mechanisms and clockwork, but she did have his corpse, and her own Spark.

Textbooks and periodicals lay strewn across every bench in her laboratory; every single reference she could find on revivification processes, extreme healing, mind transfer (annoyingly little; most successful work in the field, it seemed, had been performed by a certain L. Mongfish), and even, in desperation, necromancy. Divination by means of communication with dead spirits was pure superstitious nonsense, but the occasional serious work mentioned it nonetheless, and at this point she was willing to try nearly anything.

For, despite her every effort, her brother remained stubbornly deceased. Not a single one of the processes Anevka attempted worked the way it should. Not a single flicker of life coursed through the stiff, greying flesh. And she couldn’t tell _why_. Filtered as it was through her clank puppet, her Spark was blunted, dulled, useless, the once-dazzling leaps of intuition and revelation reduced to mere plodding mechanical logic. Even with the entire outside of his head turned to charcoal, there should have been _something_. His brain might be cooked inside his skull (there was no way to check without causing irrevocable damage that even a skilled resurrectionist couldn’t fix, which would entirely defeat the point of the exercise), but his spinal cord was still partially intact; yet there wasn’t so much as a twitch of a finger on his remaining hand, as if there was no galvanic essence passing through the corpse at all. That should not be possible, not with how many lightning jars she had hooked up. She had checked every connection several times, and everything seemed as it should be, yet there was clearly something very wrong, and no way for her to find it.

There was nothing else for it; Anevka needed to find another Spark.

But where? There were none in the town; the entire population of Balan’s Gap was wasped, and that had required driving out the few minor Sparks who had lived there. It hadn’t even been hard; a few rumours spread about, and common mob mentality had done the rest of the work. She even remembered the last of them leaving before the torches had a chance to be lit, after his daughter, just barely broken through herself, had disappeared under “suspicious circumstances”. The girl’s beau had gone missing, too; intruders in the castle tended to find their way into one laboratory or another, and were so rarely identifiable when they left.

She let the puppet go still as she flicked through a mental ledger of the foreigners staying in the town. The party for Challaburg would be no good, merchant-class types that they were; Sparks made terrible craftsmen. There was the Wundermacher family from down in the valley, visiting a dying great-aunt, but they hadn’t shown the slightest glimmer for generations, and the Order had discounted them as a possible source of new blood nearly a century ago.

The travelling Heterodyne show, perhaps? It was the same one that had once provided them with Tinka, who had so usefully acted as the template for her puppet. The clank was a Van Rijn of course, utterly priceless, and unmatchable by any Spark since, but it was also two hundred years old, and had surely required maintenance or repairs; only a Spark would be capable of the kind of complex work such a wonder of science would require. Perhaps the Holy Brat would know who among the circus rabble was so gifted; she had been hiding amongst them, after all.

No, wait! The girl herself! Anevka had put her out of her mind for the time being, dismissed her even, but she should be coherent by now. And of course she must be a Spark; it was one of the few things the Geisterdamen had known to guide their search. She must be a strong one, too: she was a Heterodyne as well as the Lady Lucrezia’s daughter; they had expected such, and she had confirmed it herself over dinner. Even better, she was _aware_ of her gift, she _knew_ she was a Spark, and not a rural, uneducated one either; she was trained, she could build things, she had experience in the lab. She had even talked of having collaborated with Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, who was reputed to be turning out as a Spark of considerable strength in his own right. Yes, perhaps this Agatha Heterodyne was somebody that she could work with.

Anevka directed her puppet towards the doorway, and addressed the footman standing outside. “Bring me- no. _Convey_ my regards to Lady Heterodyne, and request her kind presence in my laboratory.”

“You poor fool,” she told Tarvek’s corpse, as she gently unhooked the connections for the last time. “Was it _just_ a desperate attempt to stop Father from bringing his Lucrezia back? Or was it for the girl herself? I saw the way you were mooning over her at dinner, even if _she_ didn't notice. Were you in love?” The puppet’s voicebox emulated a tutting sound. “You knew better. Love is a fairytale, meant only for commoners, and not the likes of us. If it wasn’t for the Order’s plans, you would have been married long since. She would have been pretty, and compliant, and you would have been bored silly, but she would have been happy with you, because you would have charmed her senseless; you have always been very good at that.

“And you were doing so very well with Lady Heterodyne, were you not? You had her hanging off your every word. Why, I do believe she actually _liked_ you. She will be _so_ devastated when she realises you’re dead; after all, by her own account you were only the second person to ever speak to her as something approaching an equal. Yes, that will do admirably; after all, grief is such a strong motivator.

“Despite your best efforts, you _have_ been useful after all, brother dear. Wonders will never cease.

“But what shall I do with Father?” The expression on her puppet's face clicked into its frozen, all-purpose smile, the same one she had shown to Father just hours before. “Why, blame him for _everything_ , of course. ‘If providence hands you a powerless scapegoat, it is a sin not to use him,’ he always said. Ironic, don’t you think, that the scapegoat would turn out to be him. And thank you _so much_ for giving me an excuse to remove him.”

Now, where _was_ that girl? She should have arrived by now; surely she wasn’t still insensate from the wine? Hmph.

Well, if she was still waiting for her to recover, Anevka ought to at least ensure there was no further danger from that infernal machine. The priestesses would not be happy, but Anevka ruled here now, and they would comply or else face _her_ justice. And Lady Heterodyne would be ever so grateful, once Anevka informed her of what had awaited her, what her mother’s plans for her had been. Yes, then the girl would have reasons of her _own_ to work with her, against the so-called Eternal Lady’s plans.

And when that abominable machine was broken and gone, the family could finally have their chapel back; or the small library it was usually disguised as, Anevka didn’t really care which as long as it was _theirs_ , scoured clean of the Other’s works and influence. She summoned her bearers from the small chamber down the hall where they waited, no doubt gambling what wages they still had left on cards or dice or some such.

_Anevka rules now._

Such a satisfying phrase. Yes, the messenger was already on his way to _Castle Wulfenbach_ , and soon she would be confirmed in what she already held.

For the first time, she was truly free.


	5. Raising Questions

“Gilgamesh. I would value your opinion.”

Baron Wulfenbach held out an envelope, its contents already extracted and open on top of it. Gil took them, listlessly. The summons to his father’s office hadn’t been _entirely_ unexpected. They had both locked themselves in their respective laboratories for nearly the last three months, but the Baron had an empire to run, and no doubt his staff had reported his son and heir’s uncharacteristic and frankly worrying behavior to him. Possibly Wooster had gossiped, but it was more likely that the kitchen staff had noticed the man’s increasingly frazzled appearance, all but imperceptible to the untrained eye, but obvious to anybody familiar with a gentleman’s gentleman. After all, Wooster was, in keeping with his role and training, usually the soul of discretion; why would he give up the habit of a lifetime now?

What _was_ a surprise was the apparent reason for this meeting. Gil had been expecting… he wasn’t sure, really. A lecture on his health, perhaps, or an admonishment to stop pining over a dead girl who didn’t want to marry him anyway. Maybe even a chewing-out for secretly repairing and reanimating the shredded corpses of said girl’s guardians.

Certainly not an analysis of the death of some noble or other.

There was nothing unusual about the envelope. Black, as was customary for such an announcement. Sealed with wax and a stamped insignia, also normal. The letter was written in a precise hand, pretentiously ornamented. Very formal, very official, very annoying to read. He skipped over the extraneous details of the circumstances to find the identity of the deceased. Ah, there it was: Prince Aaronev Wilhelm Sturmvoraus IV, and his son, Master Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus V, both late of Sturmhalten.

_Wait, what?_

Gil read the names again, and then checked the envelope. The seal he had disregarded featured a sword thrust through a large cogwheel, the emblem of the Sturmvoraus family, which really ought to have warned him.

“Is this a joke?” he demanded. His father was not, as a rule, known for having a sense of humor.

The Baron raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer if it was? As I recall, there was little love lost between you.”

“I didn’t want him _dead_.” Gil scrubbed a hand over his face. God, he really hadn’t been getting enough sleep lately. “Tell me this is some kind of prank.”

“It is not,” his father replied. “Young Sturmvoraus _is_ dead, by all accounts, as is his father, and I would very much like to know _why_. The story given is hardly creditable.”

Ah. Personal knowledge. _That_ made a little more sense. Gil reread the letter, more carefully this time.

And then again, because it was so bizarre, yet at the same time he somehow wasn’t surprised in the least. “Shot down in the street protecting a girl,” he summarized. “By his father.”

“You knew the boy. Is this consistent with his character?”

Gil thought back to their time together in Paris. He himself, of course, had been acting the libertine, getting himself into all sorts of compromising situations while his name and face were yet unknown to the world. Sturmvoraus - _Tarvek_ \- had divided his time between glaring at him over their textbooks, and getting dragged, protesting, into nearly every adventure or plot that passed by, usually disrupting one of the hundreds of assignations that seemed to constitute his social life. Gil was fairly certain he himself had only been involved in _maybe_ half of those interruptions.

“It’s exactly the sort of melodramatic idiocy I would have expected from him.”

The Baron held his gaze, his expression giving nothing away. “Explain.”

Gil sighed, and elaborated. “Prince Aaronev has a somewhat… less than wholesome reputation with women, which I’m sure you know. Tarvek…” he hesitated “...was something of a romantic. If he was particularly taken with a girl, and he saw Aaronev trying to take, uh, liberties, he would defend her, I’m sure. A pointlessly grand gesture like running away with her is _just_ like him. And Aaronev is not known for tolerating defiance well, or having a particularly, uh, _even_ temper.” He referred back to the letter again, making sure he’d read the details correctly before continuing. “I’ve never met Princess Anevka, but if Aaronev persisted in his, um, unwelcome advances, and she felt it necessary to step in, it could easily have escalated. And Tarvek always said she was very quick with a scalpel.”

The Baron let his stiff, formal posture sag a little, and pinched the bridge of his nose in the familiar ‘why do I have to put up with idiots’ gesture that Gil had come to know so well growing up, mostly in the context of facing his father after yet another of his own misadventures. It was rather odd seeing it provoked by somebody else.

“I had hoped… never mind.” And then the façade was back, as if it hadn’t cracked at all. “Your suggested course of action?”

 _Not everything is a test,_ Gil reminded himself. _He said he values my opinion._ “Send a questor to Sturmhalten. The deaths have to be officially confirmed, of course, and we should interview the girl, corroborate the story. Eyewitnesses too, if possible, but they may not want to criticize their ruler, even if he’s dead. Possibly _especially_ now he’s dead.”

The Baron nodded. “I concur. Therefore you will be departing for Sturmhalten in half an hour. Use your new flyer; the hangar already has your flight clearances. And take Captain DuPree with you.”

Gil gaped for several seconds before he remembered he had a voice. “...why me?” The Baron gave him one of those looks that made him feel like an idiot for even asking. “Ok, _fine_. But I _can’t_ leave _now_ , can’t you-”

“I have assigned competent personnel to monitor _all_ of your presently ongoing projects,” the Baron silenced his protest. “Rest assured that they _will_ all be looked after.”

 _He knows about Punch and Judy, then._ He’d thought them so well hidden, and Wooster was good at keeping secrets, but how did he ever think he could hide something like this from the Baron, aboard his own airship? Gil nodded, defeated. “Fine. I’ll go pack, then.”

“I’ll expect regular reports,” the Baron dismissed him, returning to the piles of paperwork that Boris had surely been hounding him over for weeks. The Baron’s right-hands man must have run out of patience, and literally dragged him away from whatever important experiment had been keeping him in his lab lately. Gil envied the man’s sheer tenacity; nobody else would have dared even try.

Gil turned to leave.

“Gilgamesh?”

He paused in the doorway.

“Good luck, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comic and the novels disagree over whether Aaronev is the fourth (IV) or the sixth (VI) of his name. Since the novels also state that Tarvek is the fifth to carry the name Aaronev, I’m putting it down to confusion over how Roman numerals work and placing his father as the fourth.
> 
> Black envelopes announcing the death of nobility are a detail from the novels, introduced in the book’s equivalent of this scene. It was probably a late addition, as the comic’s version of the same scene shows a normally-coloured envelope. Incidentally, while the comic uses the spelling "quester", the novels use "questor". I'm going with the latter.
> 
> I did not intend to get Gil involved in this (he was supposed to stay on _Castle Wulfenbach_ and mope), but a question about timing from Ravenhawk made me rethink his role. This is going to complicate _so many_ of my plans. Why do I get myself into these things?


	6. Tools and Servants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains Lucrezia. Do I really need to say any more? I do? Ok then, contains amoral, self-centred, habitually-objectifying, _supreme_ narcissist with a heaping side of squick... wait no, that’s not a side, that’s the _main_. And that’s our viewpoint character for today, folks. I’m sorry about that.
> 
> On a related note, if descriptions of characters’ sexual thoughts bother you, you might want to consider skipping this chapter.

It had been a long time. Oh, so very long. Something had, despite everything - all her work, dear faithful Wilhelm, and her devoted priestesses - gone wrong, but nevertheless, the girls had done it! They had rebuilt her beacon engine, found her daughter wherever it was that Barry had tried to hide the child, and called her back! She didn’t even mind that it had taken them as long as it did: in practical terms, all that really meant was that the girl was grown, was _mature_. And in such _excellent_ shape, too. Oh, she would have such _fun_ when she found a suitable man to enjoy. Such a _shame_ she’d had to get rid of dear Klaus, but he really would have gotten in the way so. Wilhelm, of course, she would reward for his loyalty, but he must be ever so much older now. She vaguely remembered how much more fragile humans became with age; that could possibly be a problem. She would have to find a more youthful one if she wanted to have some _real_ fun.

But all in good time. First, she had work to do.

Reaffirming her priestesses’ faith was simplicity itself: Vrin had proven herself loyal by the simple act of bringing the girl here, and Eotain and Shurdlu had followed her lead. All three of them were just as joyful at her return as they should be, and no doubt the rest would be as well. The news of Milvistle’s treachery was concerning, and would have to be dealt with in due course, but with the Loremistress already dead it wasn’t at all urgent.

No, the first step was to repair the beacon engine. Wilhelm, it seemed, had tried his best, but she could tell at a glance just how poor a job he’d done of assembling it, even with the directions she’d left her priestesses; really, must she do _everything_ herself? The actual workings must be a sorry sight indeed. And where _was_ Wilhelm, anyway? He should have been _here_ , at her moment of triumph, welcoming her alongside her priestesses. Perhaps even with that oh-so-useful Order of his. Yes, the Knights of Jove would be at her command now, and with them and her beautiful wasps-

Wait. Vrin had mentioned, among those whose loyalty was in doubt, Wilhelm’s son, Tarvek. The High Priestess had been growing increasingly suspicious of the boy, but far more relevant was the news that he was recently dead, killed that very night in fact. Perhaps Wilhelm was mourning him, then. Tch. People did get so sentimental over children.

Very well, then. She would let Wilhelm mourn in peace, and when he was done he would be all the more eager to return to her side.

But in the meantime, she would need tools, equipment. The beacon engine wouldn’t fix itself, and the chapel appeared to be sadly devoid of such things. This _was_ Sturmhalten, wasn’t it? Surely there must be a laboratory somewhere?

Ah, there was a clank watching alertly from the doorway, an acceptably sophisticated one even. That would do. Even in his grief, Wilhelm had sent her aid.

“Clank! Show me where your master keeps his tools!” she commanded. Behind it, a gaggle of servants stood impassively, carrying… oh. How disappointing. The clank’s brain must not be sufficiently miniaturised, if it needed to be carried separately. And the container wasn’t even self-propelled.

“My lady,” the clank responded, with a slight nod, hardly deferential at all. “I fear you are misinformed. I am Anevka Sturmvoraus.”

“ _Anevka?!_ ” Lucrezia gasped in surprise. “My, how you’ve-” _what?_ The last time she had seen Wilhelm’s daughter, the girl had been a very young child indeed, a byproduct of that tedious project of the Order’s that her father had spent so much time on, which seemed to have fallen apart while she was... out of touch. And now, it appeared, Anevka was a clank. Lucrezia had thought that nobody else had mastered mind transfer to that extent. Clearly, there had been developments made while she was… away.

“Changed?” Anevka supplied, cocking her head to one side. An artificial noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh emanated from her voicebox. “Yes, you could say that.”

Well, far be it from Lucrezia to criticize somebody for making the leap away from an organic body. Goodness knows that mechanical had _so many_ obvious advantages. Well, the girl would regret her choice in good time - there were _certain fields_ where the two simply couldn’t compare in the least - and then... why, then Lucrezia would have such a _splendid_ offer for her.

“Welcome back, my lady.” Anevka finally gave Lucrezia the proper deference, dipping into a shallow curtsy. A _very_ shallow one. Hmph. She hoped the girl wasn’t getting ideas above her station. 

"Go get your father, darling. He should _be_ here. He must _know_ that I'm back."

Anevka straightened again, with the economy of movement that only a clank could have, and said, “I regret to inform you that my father is deceased, as is my brother.”

“ ** _WHAT?!_** ”

The clank’s face remained impassive, that fixed smile painted onto the porcelain, and Lucrezia fought back the urge to smash it into tiny pieces. It wasn’t fair. Wilhelm was _hers_. He could not be dead. She had not told him he could be dead. _It wasn’t fair_.

“He attempted to assault your daughter,” the wretched girl continued, unmoved. “I’m sure you would agree he had to be stopped.”

Lucrezia scowled. That _man_. Why couldn’t he have waited until she could reciprocate? She would have been appropriately enthusiastic. 

She straightened, and pushed her daughter's glasses up her nose. Why, oh why, did the girl have to be _defective?_ Well, once she was properly established here, she would have any number of new bodies to choose from, and any number of slaves at her beck and call.

“Have you any other brothers?” Lucrezia asked hopefully, spreading a charming smile across her daughter’s features. Wilhelm had been, as well as decorative and _quite_ vigorous, exceedingly skilled - in more ways than one - and his Spark had shone bright. Not as bright as hers, of course, but if he had passed it on...

Anevka shook her head. “No, my lady. Tarvek was my father’s only son.”

“A pity,” Lucrezia sighed. “Well then, darling. _You_ will simply have to help me instead.” 

The clank inclined her head once more. “Of course, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I need a shower. I regret that this isn’t the last we’ll hear from her.


	7. Cracks

“What really happened to Anevka?” Tarvek hadn’t heard Violetta approach, and had no way to tell how long she had been standing in the doorway. “Back in the Hospital, they said the clank _thought_ it was her, but when we saw it in the Dome…”

Tarvek marked his place with a slip of paper, and lowered the slim book to the small table next to him, where a number of similar volumes sat in two stacks. His coffee, he noted absently, had long since gone cold. He rubbed his eyes wearily as Violetta added another book, badly dented, to the wrong pile. That particular one could have remained on the floor until it was dust, for all he cared.

“Even at the Hospital, that was already Lucrezia,” he reluctantly admitted. “Anevka… died some time before, and her clank already did so much on its own… It never noticed.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet his cousin’s eyes.

“And telling her would have been cruel.”

~†~

The Lady set a punishing pace. Anevka herself had little need for true rest, for while her puppet worked feverishly, her real body did no work at all, and the odd light doze was sufficient to refresh her mind. But the Lady seemed to have forgotten that there were limits to human endurance, and Anevka half hoped that her “mistress” would drop dead of sheer exhaustion, or even just accidentally electrocute herself. She had already noticed her nearly nod off over her work several times, waking up angry and confused and demanding something from the nearest Geisterdame. Deep in concentration, focused on her own work, Anevka had caught almost none of the details. A pity; it might have given her something she could use.

The Princess of Sturmhalten contemplated the summoning engine that had been Lady Heterodyne’s doom, its panels now levered open where the Lady Lucrezia had removed most of its workings for repairs. On the floor, under the arm of the thronelike chair that the engine hung above, she could see a severed hand, lying forgotten and abandoned where it must have fallen from Lady Heterodyne’s grasp; Anevka well remembered the agony of the attempt to implant another mind over her own. She was almost completely certain that the hand was her brother’s, the one that had still clutched at the girl’s even as it was cut from his corpse; that, if nothing else, was the surest sign that the young woman was truly no longer she who he’d died for.

Behind the impassive smile of her clank, Anevka seethed, once again glad that the glorified puppet was unable to properly display her feelings. That _stupid_ boy! If Tarvek had but waited, if he had just _thought_ for a moment about the mere possibility that she might agree with him, they could have conspired together to remove Father and use the girl _and_ her voice, and all of Sturmhalten would have fallen into their lap! But no, he’d _had_ to act rashly, and now he was dead and the Lady was back and that was quite simply the worst possible thing that could have happened.

Anevka scowled internally. She would have to do this the hard way, and there was little she could do to truly establish her rule while the Lady Lucrezia and her priestesses were around, able to countermand any and every order she gave. So the first step would have to be getting rid of the Lady. Killing her would be preferable, of course, and the copious quantities of stimulants she was demanding gave her an obvious opening for an overdose, but Anevka doubted that she would survive the priestesses’ discovery of the death. That left getting them away from Sturmhalten, somehow. But all of the Lady’s machines were here, the priestesses well-settled, and a significant portion of the High Council of the Order primed to fall at her feet the moment they heard she’d returned. She was not only established here, but _entrenched_. It would require an irresistible bait.

She took a moment to be thankful that her father had been so impatient. He hadn’t bothered to pause to summon the Council as he was supposed to, and that meant she would be able to keep this secret for just a little longer. This reprieve wouldn’t last forever, of course, but it only had to last long _enough_.

It had been many hours since she had explained the current political situation _viz._ Baron Wulfenbach, and the Lady had complained about his return, then lapsed into a thoughtful silence, punctuated only by the occasional demand for a tool, or a correction or modification to Anevka’s work. If the silence was more the product of fatigue than planning, then so much the better; the Lady would be infinitely more suggestible.

“What will you do, if the Baron’s questor arrives and finds you here?” Anevka enquired, her tone carefully idle. “Wasp him?”

“Why, of course!” the Lady replied, as if it were perfectly obvious.

“But that would only shield you from his discovering you _here and now_ ,” Anevka pointed out. “Do you plan to remain at Sturmhalten, hiding underground with your priestesses? Balan’s Gap may be completely ours, but it is a major pass through the mountains; many people pass through, and we _cannot_ wasp them all. Sooner or later, suspicions will be raised, and Wulfenbach _will_ take action against us. It will be war, and you won’t be ready.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. I have my priestesses, and I have my beautiful wasps. Klaus wouldn’t _dare_ harm so many ‘innocent’ people. All of Europa would turn on him.”

Anevka raised a mental eyebrow. The Lady really _had_ been out of touch. “He _would_ dare, my lady,” she replied. “Why do you think the Great Houses are so terrified of him, and the Fifty Families haven’t overthrown him? He has that power, and he is not afraid to use it as he sees necessary.”

“Hmph. That _man,_ ” Lady Lucrezia sighed. “Very well. I _won’t_ fight Klaus then. _Yet_.”

It was clear that would be the most concession she would get on that front, but it would have to do. There were more urgent concerns. “But you _will_ have to find somewhere to go, my lady. Your remaining here will serve _none_ of us well. Leave the questor to me,” Anevka insisted. “We have _plenty_ of hive engines.”

And now, the temptation: “And... what if you could take that power, the _Baron’s_ power, for yourself?”

The Lady gave her a skeptical look. “I hardly think Klaus would simply hand it all over if I asked, darling.”

“Whyever not?” Anevka asked. “Baron Wulfenbach’s control of Mechanicsburg is a mere stewardship, against the day a Heterodyne returns to claim it. The Jägermonsters make up a substantial portion of his forces, but their loyalty to their _true_ masters is legendary; if a Heterodyne were to return, they would flock to her side in a heartbeat.”

“Mechanicsburg is _so_ intractable,” the Lady pouted, most unbecomingly. “Bill this, and Heterodyne that. Why, the Castle itself rejects the very idea of rule without a Heterodyne, to say nothing of-”

“You wear the body of a daughter of the Heterodynes. You _are_ ‘Lady Heterodyne’, are you not?” Anevka pressed. “They are hers by right. All you need do is walk into Castle Heterodyne and proclaim yourself.”

The Lady frowned.

“It will require repairs, of course,” Anevka added, “but you are a Spark.”

“Yes,” Lucrezia said at length. “I _am_ a Spark. But, darling, what do _you_ get out of this? You can’t possibly imagine I’d believe you’re suggesting this out of the goodness of your heart.”

Anevka turned to her with what should have been a dazzling smile. “I? Why, I lead the Knights of Jove to triumph, of course! Surely you hadn’t forgotten the Order’s _original_ purpose? We still continue, and we are very close to ready. In but a few short years, the last heir of Andronicus Valois will be discovered. The old prophecies will be remembered. And then, when a popular uprising has revived the Lightning Crown…”

Anevka watched the Lady’s expression shift as she followed the line of thought. She could practically _see_ the idea falling into place, and taking root.

“The Storm King marries the Heterodyne Girl…” Lady Lucrezia murmured, almost to herself.

“Yes,” Anevka agreed, even as she clamped down on the hurt that it would have to be Cousin Martellus who took the throne, and not her own beloved brother. Seffie would be so _smug_. “He cements his power, and _you_ would be Queen.”

“No.” The Lady’s fist clenched, and Anevka’s heart sank. “I will not sit by and be a happy little bride while _somebody else_ sits on _my_ throne,” Lucrezia spat.

That was it, then. That had been her best chance, and now Anevka would have to find another way to get this abomination out of her castle, out of her lands, and out of her way. Preferably _before_ Baron Wulfenbach had a chance to discover what had transpired here, and how deeply complicit her family had been. Anevka would be the head of the Order as soon as the news of her father’s death spread, as soon as she was confirmed as the new ruler of Sturmhalten; the daughter who had been neither expected nor intended to _ever_ hold power, and _she_ would be held responsible for his crimes. It really wasn’t fair.

The Lady paused thoughtfully, and Anevka would have held her breath if she still had any control over her voluntary muscles.

“But ‘Lady Heterodyne’ has… possibilities.”

○◯○

 _She was… asleep? Maybe. It was hard to tell. It was hard to_ think _._

_She thought she had woken up, just for a moment, but she couldn’t remember._

_Something caught her attention. Something she was trying to remember, something about… Mechanicsburg? Yes, that was it. Mechanicsburg._

_She had been trying to get to Mechanicsburg. Yes. She caught onto that one thought, held it tight._

_She had to get to Mechanicsburg._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening of this chapter was prompted by a remark about dragging Tarvek to a therapist over this story. Considering the kinds of people who study psychology in this world... Violetta asking him uncomfortable questions and making him talk about his life with someone who understands it is probably the closest we're going to get.


	8. Seeking Answers

Heliogram delivered to Questor Wulfenbach on arrival at Sturmhalten:

PRIORITY URGENT  
BODY IS NOT REPEAT NOT MISS CLAY  
CAPTURE ALIVE IF POSSIBLE  
REPORT ANY INFORMATION OR SIGHTING IMMEDIATELY

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to Questor Wulfenbach, from _Castle Wulfenbach_ , delivered to him at Sturmhalten:

PRIORITY URGENT  
NEW KIND OF REVENANT DISCOVERED TYPICALLY INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM UNINFECTED  
EXTENT OF INFESTATION UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME  
MISS CLAY SUSPECTED CAPABLE OF CONTROL  
EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to _Castle Wulfenbach_ , sent by Questor Wulfenbach from Sturmhalten:

SURVIVAL OF MISS CLAY ACKNOWLEDGED  
SUSPECT INVOLVEMENT IN DEATHS AT STURMHALTEN  
NO LONGER PRESENT ATTEMPTING TO LOCATE  
WILL BEAR POSSIBLE REVENANT CONTROL IN MIND  
INITIAL REPORT TO FOLLOW

Herr Baron:

I have completed my initial investigation at Sturmhalten. It appears to be a fairly straightforward case, however despite questioning everybody resident at the castle, and a considerable number in the town, there are a few details which are distinctly odd.

Somebody here is lying to us; Captain DuPree is certain of it. What is less certain is _who_. Oh, everyone was cooperative enough, from the heir apparent, Princess Anevka Sturmvoraus, right down to the footmen and maids. Almost _too_ eager. But the servants are all terrified of something, or someone. DuPree thinks they’re acting as though they expect somebody to kill them at any moment, and, worryingly, I can’t find any reason to dispute this. Even removing them from her presence failed to produce any discernible difference.

The story we have been told, and have yet to find any evidence to the contrary, is much the same as the official one: a passing Heterodyne show was invited to perform for the Sturmhalten royal family, and they invited one of the actresses, a Madame Olga Žiga, to join them for dinner. Towards the end of the meal, Prince Aaronev assaulted her, and Master Tarvek raised an objection. Matters escalated, leading to Tarvek fleeing the castle with Madame Žiga in his arms. Prince Aaronev gave chase personally, killing several servants and guards who attempted to waylay him, and caught up as Tarvek crossed the castle’s lightning moat. He then shot his son, first disabling, then executing him. Having viewed the body, I can state that Tarvek’s injuries are consistent with the eyewitness accounts: the initial injury would not have been immediately fatal, and may in fact have been survivable if treated quickly, but the second was _definitely_ fatal and left no hope of revivification. What was _not_ mentioned is that one hand was cut off, _post mortem_ , at the joint of the wrist; it took additional questioning in the presence of Captain DuPree to elicit from some of the guards that “he wouldn't let go” of Madame Žiga, apparently in cadaveric spasm.

Madame Žiga was returned to the castle, upon which the Prince assaulted her a second time, this time within reach of Princess Anevka’s clank; I should note at this point that Princess Anevka is extremely ill to the point of being an invalid, and relies entirely on this clank (constructed for her by Tarvek; I would very much like to return at a later date to study it) to interact with the world around her, but it is not very mobile, restricted to the length of the cables with which she controls it. The clank is, however, equipped with extremely strong close-contact electrical weaponry, powerful enough to completely immolate everything it was wearing at the time, and she informs me that she was unable to recalibrate it to less dangerous levels in the time available. When she intervened in her father’s attack on their guest, in her attempt to prevent a third assault Prince Aaronev was fatally and catastrophically electrocuted. I have examined the body, and his injuries are consistent with a massive electric current being passed through him.

The family chapel, the presumed location of this second and attempted third assault, has recently been destroyed by fire. I have delegated a squad from the local detachment of Wulfenbach forces to deliver the remains of machinery found there to _Castle Wulfenbach_ for analysis.

Madame Žiga would be an exceedingly valuable eyewitness, but she is no longer at Sturmhalten, nor is she to be found anywhere in Balan’s Gap. She was allegedly given a purse in compensation for her traumatic experience, and returned to her troupe. Said troupe departed the better part of a week ago; it is believed that they were planning to tour in the valley for the next few months, including a stop in Mechanicsburg.

Also of note is that the Heterodyne show appears to be the same one encountered by myself and Captain DuPree during our original search for Miss Clay. The description of Olga Žiga fits nobody that we saw there at the time, however it _does_ closely match that of Miss Clay.

I am departing Sturmhalten to locate the Heterodyne show and “Madame Žiga” for questioning. They ought to be able to provide a viewpoint of Sturmhalten unencumbered by loyalty and familiarity, as well as “Madame Žiga”’s own account of events.

With regard to your last heliogram, and in light of the possibility that “Madame Žiga” could in fact be Miss Clay, I advise that a number of the people we questioned had a slightly peculiar reaction to any mention of or reference to “Madame Žiga”. This reaction was shared _only_ by those who had come into direct personal contact with her, and those who had attended the Heterodyne show’s performance; anybody who only saw her in passing appears to behave normally. There is otherwise no evidence or even suggestion of the troupe utilizing any kind of mind- or behavior-affecting devices. Could it be somehow related to the effect you referenced? I expect when we find “Madame Žiga” she will be able to provide some kind of explanation. It may be no more than a simple variant of mesmerism.

It is exceedingly irritating and inconvenient that my flyer is fundamentally incompatible with the heliographs, but this cannot be helped; both sending and receiving require a stable platform large enough to be visually located from a distance, and this is impractical at the high speeds and small size optimal for heavier-than-air flight. What we win on speed and mobility, we lose on communications. Perhaps some kind of aetheric wave transmitter will be suitably miniaturizable. In the meantime, I will check for messages daily at whichever heliograph station I find myself nearest to.

Yours in investigation,

Questor Gilgamesh Wulfenbach

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to _Castle Wulfenbach_ , sent by Questor Wulfenbach from Mulverschtag:

PRIORITY URGENT  
HETERODYNE SHOW LOCATED NO SIGN OF MISS CLAY  
CIRCUS REPORTS PASSHOLDT OVERRUN BY AGGRESSIVE CONSTRUCTS BELIEVED FORMERLY HUMAN  
DIVERTING TO INVESTIGATE AT ONCE  
ALERT FLEET WATCH VICINITY FOR SIGNALS  
REPORT TO FOLLOW

Herr Baron:

I have located Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure, a week out of Sturmhalten. It is indeed the same Heterodyne show that Captain DuPree and I previously encountered, and they were none too happy to see us. However, they were nevertheless able to expand slightly on the oddities at Sturmhalten. I am pleased to report that nobody was injured in the process.

Firstly, they have confirmed the suspected identity of “Madame Žiga”; she is known to them as Miss Agatha Clay and has been sheltering with them since shortly after they found her in the Wastelands. Other than who died, the story they told us at the time is substantially true.

Following their performance at Sturmhalten, Miss Clay was indeed invited to dine with the royal family. This was the last they saw of her, as the troupe was woken before dawn the next morning and ordered to leave town immediately, “for their own safety”. A small party nevertheless returned to Sturmhalten with the intent of “rescuing” Miss Clay through the network of tunnels beneath the town and castle. Only one of their number returned to the troupe. He reports encountering a group of Geisterdamen, which previously have only been seen in the Wastelands, and sightings of more. He tells me that the remainder of the party were determined to press on, despite the apparent danger.

You may recall that, beyond rumours and folklore, we know very little about the Geisterdamen, or where they come from. When there is time and ~~monster hunters~~ researchers available, Sturmhalten may be a good place to start.

On a related note, Master Payne also informs me that the town of Passholdt has been overrun by unfamiliar monsters, feral and highly aggressive, suspected to have formerly been the townsfolk. They reported this at Sturmhalten, but he thought the matter urgent enough to advise me directly, as we will be able to act on it more quickly than had we simply received it through normal channels. Nobody at Sturmhalten mentioned anything about Passholdt; it is now very clear that they are hiding something there. We are going to Passholdt at once to confirm his report.

Incidentally, Captain DuPree’s extensive examination of the troupe’s wagons revealed nothing untoward; a great many unusual things, as would be expected of a traveling Heterodyne show, but nothing suspicious (or of any significant intrinsic value, to DuPree’s disappointment). There are two minor points of interest: a pair of clanks in the style of Van Rijn, the best I’ve ever seen (although one is in very poor repair, and I have offered to return at a later date to examine it more closely); and clear evidence that Miss Clay has worked on the wagons themselves. Many of them show fascinating improvements and innovations, and they have a simply magnificent traveling calliope that they tell me she recently completed repairs on and, dare I say, it probably sounds even better than it did new.

I will heliograph in from Passholdt. If the situation there is indeed as dire as it sounds, and their station is either unavailable or inaccessible, time will be too critical to spend attempting to locate another permanent station. Please alert the Heliolux Air Fleet to watch for signals from a temporary station nearby.

Yours in investigation,

Questor Gilgamesh Wulfenbach

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to Questor Wulfenbach, from _Castle Wulfenbach_ , directed to Passholdt area:

PRIORITY URGENT  
CONTAINMENT FORCES EN ROUTE TO PASSHOLDT  
REMAIN AND PREPARE TO TAKE COMMAND

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to _Castle Wulfenbach_ , sent by Questor Wulfenbach from temporary station near Passholdt:

PRIORITY URGENT  
PASSHOLDT CONFIRMED OVERRUN  
UNABLE TO LAND THERE SAFELY NO VISIBLE SURVIVORS  
INCLINED TO AGREE WITH CAPT DUPREE’S ASSESSMENT  
RESUMING SEARCH FOR MISS CLAY

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to Questor Wulfenbach near Passholdt:

PRIORITY URGENT  
NO SUCH REPORT RECEIVED FROM STURMHALTEN REGARDING PASSHOLDT  
REQUEST CONFIRM RECEIPT OF LAST MESSAGE  
REMAIN REPEAT REMAIN AT PASSHOLDT  
SEARCH FOR MISS CLAY REASSIGNED

Plaintext of encrypted heliogram to _Castle Wulfenbach_ , sent by Questor Wulfenbach from temporary station near Passholdt:

MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED  
REMAINING AT PASSHOLDT PENDING ARRIVAL OF TROOPS AND FURTHER ORDERS


	9. Under the Shadow World

“Whatcha doing?”

Tarvek directed a glare at where Princess Zeetha of Skifander leaned over the back of the chaise-lounge he was sprawled across. He’d heard her approach, soft though her tread was, but neglected to greet her in hopes that she would go away.

She hadn’t.

“Oh, just tormenting myself for doing so _little_ to rescue Agatha while there was still a hope of saving her from the summoning engine,” he said bitterly. It had been another long, restless night.

“Well, _don’t_.” Zeetha stepped around the chaise, and shoved his legs off so she could sit next to him. “It’s been, what, weeks now for you? Months? And you’re _still_ obsessing over it? That’s not healthy. What’s done is in the past, and you can’t change it, any more than you could have prevented the Baron freezing Mechanicsburg. 

“The important part is that you _did_ try. Agatha doesn’t blame you for failing. And next time, you’ll do better.”

“Really? Lately it seems like _I’m_ usually the one in need of rescuing,” Tarvek said sourly. “She’s managed perfectly fine without me.”

“Agatha ‘manages’ because she has people backing her up, who can catch her if something goes wrong,” Zeetha pointed out. “Do you think she would have accomplished as much as she has on her _own_ _?_ ”

“Yes.” A fond smile touched Tarvek’s lips. “She’s amazing.”

“She is,” Zeetha acknowledged. “She’s strong. But even if she doesn’t _need_ us, we’re still there for her.” She swigged his coffee, pulled a face, and hastily replaced it on the table. “Did she ever mention that we tried to rescue her too?”

“I don’t think so?” Tarvek frowned. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me, Dimo, Oggie, and Maxim, Krosp, and Lars.” Zeetha ticked them off on her fingers. “You never met him, but Lars was completely head-over-heels for her. He _insisted_ on coming with us.” She gave a sad smile. “He really didn’t belong there at all.”

“And what does _he_ have to do with this?” Tarvek tried to keep his tone pleasant, and to not raise an eyebrow sardonically. It was never comfortable to hear about one’s beloved’s former beaux.

“Nothing, specifically. It’s the rescue attempt that matters,” Zeetha returned. “From what Agatha said, we’d never have made it into the castle in time to save her, even if that Smoke Knight your sister lent us _hadn’t_ tried to lose us in an oubliette. But we _tried_ , and that’s what’s important.”

“An _oubliette?_ ” Tarvek shot bolt upright. “I didn’t think we still _had_ one! How far down _were_ you?!”

“The Sewer Rats said it was called the Deepdown,” she replied.

Tarvek gaped at her. “But the Deepdown is full of monsters! _Serious_ monsters!”

Zeetha grinned. “And you think that would stop us trying?”

~†~

There was always light in the tunnels.

The Shadowworlders would have called it dark, Shurdlu thought; the luminous fungi, insects and crystals would have been scarcely sufficient for them to see by. She had noticed how they insisted on lighting their spaces as much as possible, on the rare occasions that she had ventured into them. Retrieving a girl who might be the Holy Child, perhaps, or visiting the Castle to pray at the Goddess’ sacred Throne.

Those days were ended now. The Child had been found, the Goddess was with them once more, and soon, soon they would be able to return home. But the Eternal Lady had one more task for them first.

It would be a difficult journey, away from the lands they had become so familiar with, but they were long used to wandering now. And this was no aimless, hopeful search, but one with a destination at its end: the Shadow World city of Mekaniksburg, where the Goddess had once ruled, and soon would again.

The task of escorting her there was a great honor, one which Shurdlu and her sister-in-arms Eotain had joyfully accepted. While the rest of the White Elite bore their equipment away, to return the Lady’s devices to their hidden city-camp in the Empty Lands (save for the Sacred Throne that Lady Anevka had assured them would be protected where it stood), the two of them would remain in the presence of the Goddess, basking in her light and her favor.

The Goddess had graciously accepted the spider eagerly offered for her mount, and the journey had begun.

It was not an easy one. The Goddess must have been exhausted from the War of the Prophecy, yet she rested little, insisting on traveling as far as possible, until they were forced to stop lest they injure the spiders. There, they had finally rested, setting up camp in a cavern. And they had slept.

Shurdlu was worried. She had always had faith: the Goddess had always returned to them, bringing light and wonder and comfort, and always would. The Prophecies, terrifying though they were, had always been true and wise. They had searched for the Holy Child, and had found her, despite those who had doubted, and died for their blasphemy.

And yet…

There had been moments, in the chamber of the Lady’s throne, when she had looked at her priestesses as if she feared them. When she had shouted at them in the tongue of the Shadowworlders, the strange, flattish language which most of the Elite, Shurdlu and Eotain among them, had seen no reason to learn, beyond a handful of words and useful orders. High Priestess Vrin would have known what she said, but she had been in the caverns, giving the orders to move out. Princess Anevka might have been able to tell them, but she was of the Shadow World herself, and busy with the Lady’s sacred work besides.

Shurdlu had ignored it: it was a test of faith, perhaps. The truly faithful have no need of such things, and her Goddess acted as though nothing had happened, so Shurdlu had followed her lead, secure in the knowledge that she had solved the puzzle for herself, passing the test and thus had no need for doubt.

But that hadn’t been the end of it.

When they made camp, Eotain and Shurdlu had taken shifts on watch, while the Eternal Lady took her sacred rest, as things should be. But the Lady’s night had not been restful.

No sooner had she closed her eyes and relaxed in holy repose, than did the Lady’s eyes snap open once more. She had been angry. She had refused to speak the sacred tongue, instead shouting at Shurdlu in the speech of the Shadowworlders, as the Holy Child had done before they had seated her in her rightful place and called the Lady back. For the first time, Shurdlu had feared her Goddess.

It hadn’t lasted long. Within minutes, the Lady’s eyes had closed, and she had collapsed into deep slumber, restless and fitful, as if she continued the War amongst the Gods in her dreams.

What did a Goddess dream about? Shurdlu had never thought to wonder, and it was not her place to ask.

She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t talk to Eotain; she knew her sister-at-arms was not strong in her faith, and would be little help in reaffirming her own. She wished that Vrin were here; the High Priestess was wise in all things, and always knew how best to reassure a wavering sister.

The journey was long and difficult. Soon they would be among the Shadowworlders, and Shurdlu would need every bit of her faith to sustain her.

Soon, they would leave the security of the caverns, to travel overland in the brilliant light of the Moon, and the harsh glare of the Sun.

Soon, the Goddess would be returned to her city, to her rightful rule, to where she could rebuild the Gateway that had brought the priestesses here so long ago.

Soon, the journey would be over, and they would go home.


	10. The Shape of the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains DuPree. She’s a very different flavour of disturbing and prefers torture and rampant slaughter.
> 
> Also contains descriptions of dead bodies and references to mind control, but those are mild in comparison.

Bangladesh DuPree was bored. Bored, bored, bored. She hadn’t been allowed to stab anybody in _days_ , had hardly been allowed to even threaten them a little. Even the monsters she’d been promised at Passholdt had been the _not fun_ sort: the fuzzy little beasts with the Vespiary Squad had freaked out, and the Vespers said that meant they were revenants. In DuPree’s opinion revenants were the least good kind of monster, because all they did was scratch and claw: no fear, no thought, no challenge. Sure, these ones were nastier than the usual kind, but both sorts had once been _people_ , normal innocent people who’d done nothing wrong. Not that she would let that _stop_ her, but that sort of thing got Klaus glaring at her for having her fun even on the best of days, and revenants were worse, because they’d been forced to be there, to be cannon fodder while the people who _deserved_ it were elsewhere: the people who turned killing into a chore, and left her cleaning up their mess instead. She’d slaughtered easily a dozen of these new revenants, getting the Bug Squad and their critters out of Passholdt intact, and found no joy in it at all.

But Sturmhalten, in her considered opinion, was even worse. Herr Grumpy had brought some of the Vespers back from Passholdt, along with as many of his reinforcements as could be spared, and their critters had screamed blue bloody murder practically the instant they landed (and why blue? It didn’t make any sense; in her experience, murder was nearly always _red_ , especially if it was bloody). She hadn’t believed the heliogram he’d showed her, hadn’t believed the Vespers’ reports from the _Castle_ , until she saw the results with her own eyes: every living soul in the town, save a handful of the madboy nobility, was a revenant, even the servants in the castle. And with the Heterodyne girl apparently able to control them, not one of them could be relied on to say _anything_ useful about her. No wonder it had felt like they were all lying. Even stabbing a few of them wouldn’t help.

And, of course, that meant they had to do the whole investigation all over again.

The crypt was cold. DuPree was used to cold, the icy chill of high-altitude winds, but the stone chamber was dark and still, lit only by the electric lanterns they had brought with them. The prissy princess had objected, but Herr Mopey - not so mopey anymore, he was _angry_ now, angry like the Baron often was when some idiocy-or-other had gotten somebody _useful_ killed - had insisted: they had to see the bodies again, had to confirm their identities. They did not have the luxury of trusting the testimony of the locals. Not that DuPree ever did anyway, on principle, but here even listening to the lies they told wouldn’t necessarily give them the shape of the truth.

The lid of the Prince’s sarcophagus was heavy, but opening it was a simple matter of leverage and muscles. Not hers, of course; that wasn’t _her_ job. No, DuPree’s job was to make sure nobody got up to anything funny. Pretty boring, if you asked her. She’d seen dead bodies before, of course; she’d _made_ most of them, not that she held out a lot of hope of doing that today. She’d almost never had to bother with identifying them.

They’d appropriated a family portrait from the castle above, and once the lid was off and the light brought closer (Herr Sparky had growled, opened up the casing on one of them, and tinkered around until it was nearly as bright as some of the latest emergency flares), it had been easy. Despite attempts to clean it up and make it presentable, the corpse still had that crispy-fried smell, and spending a week or so dead always changed a body, but the face was still recognizably the man in the portrait.

One down.

The other was being kept in the cold storage cellar attached to the princess’ lab, the lab that was properly-stocked with scalpels and saws and all other kinds of sharp implements. The stink of charcoal and burned flesh was blunted by the chill, until the sheet was lifted away.

The corpse’s face was gone, charred right down to the bone, and what little hair was left was stiff and blackened. The skin, mottled with the beginnings of decay that even cold storage couldn’t stave off indefinitely, must have been pale and soft in life, smooth and flawless as only nobility’s could get, and the previously-missing hand must have been found, because it was now back in its place, secured with a bandage, as though it might one day heal. _Fat chance_. There were a few electrode burns across the bare chest, probably from a resurrection attempt or two, because no way was that positioning doing anything interesting to a _living_ body, but the rest of it… oh, how DuPree would have loved to get her hands on him, gently scoring that pretty skin open with a knife, carving intricate patterns that would heal into-

DuPree blinked, and peered closer. That skin wasn’t as smooth and perfect as she had thought: the designs she'd been mentally tracing onto it were _real_. They were faded, nearly flush with the rest of the skin, but the stark brightness of the modified lamp revealed a definite and distinctive pattern.

“Hey!” she crowed triumphantly. “It’s Prince How Dare You! I thought he’d fallen to his death!”

Herr Grouchy frowned at her. Well, frowned harder. That feckless, carefree, sensitive lad she’d thought she’d known had been fading by the minute since they’d found the circus again. “You _know_ him?”

“Sure I do, I shanghaied him in Paris! It was great!” DuPree smirked with fond memory.

Without a face to compare against, the portrait had been set aside, against an icy wall; now he pulled it out again, tapping by the face of the young milksop standing to one side. “You’re _sure_ it was him?”

“I’d know those scars anywhere!” she boasted, examining the picture, then broke into a grin. “It _is_ him! I didn’t recognise him when he’s not screaming.”

“That was the last piece I needed confirmed,” he said flatly. Gilgamesh’s face darkened as he cast the portrait aside, stalking back out into the laboratory proper, where Princess Clank was waiting for them.

“ _You_.” He almost spat the word as the clank recoiled from him. “Every living soul here has lied to me. Your report of the circumstances of your family’s deaths is suspect at _best_.”

“Have you any evidence?” The clank’s metallic voice held no emotion.

“Your chapel was burned to destroy whatever evidence it held, and soon I will know _exactly what it was_.” And some fire _that_ must have been, to do as much damage as it had; they’d tried to clean it up, but she was certain now that it had been _deliberately_ lit, not the collateral damage that they’d tried to claim before. DuPree’d set enough fires herself to tell the difference by now. But what other evid-? Oh, right, that half-melted machinery they’d dragged out of the ashes and packed off to _Castle Wulfenbach_. Yeah, Klaus was probably elbow-deep in it as they spoke.

“Then you will refrain, I’m sure, from leveling accusations for which there is no proof.” Ye gods, that fixed smile was _creepy_. Didn’t it have any other expressions it could use?

“Then how about some that I _can_ prove,” Gilgamesh growled. “You failed to report Passholdt. You lied to my face about the whereabouts of your guest, and I have no doubt that you have also lied about what happened to her. Furthermore, your _entire town_ is infested by Slaver Wasps, which is a _statistical impossibility, unless there is some more direct cause._ **_Captain DuPree!_** ” he snapped, without turning around.

“Herr Questor!” DuPree automatically jumped to attention. _Wha-_

“ _Tell me, what did I tell that Heterodyne show would happen if they were lying to me?_ ”

DuPree’s eyes widened with memory. “ _Oooh_. Really?!”

He didn’t give her the chance to answer him as he continued: “ _Princess Anevka Sturmvoraus. YOU are the sovereign here, and the only free-willed person in the entirety of Balan’s Gap, and as such I am holding YOU fully responsible…_ ”

By then DuPree had stopped listening; she’d heard all the important bits, all the stuff that she needed to know, and the rest would just be the formalities, the protests of innocence (“ _blahblahblah broken trust blahblahblah_ ”), the ‘you don’t have the authority!’ that never really mattered because all it ever amounted to was being frowned at by Klaus again (“ _blahblah despot’s son_ ”), and by then it was always all over anyway. Instead (“ _betrayal blahblahblah Squealy was right about you_ ”) she thought and planned about which knife would work best for getting into that casket those idiot servants were carrying around, the thing that apparently held the actual body of her new victim, and which tendon she would cut first, because the struggling was fun but it made the detail work _so much_ harder (“ _blahblah priestesses put her in that_ machine”), and…

The sudden prospect of violence derailed her train of thought: the protests had escalated into shouting, the clank’s voice so distorted it was barely understandable, and Herr Gilgamesh in a full madboy fury had just reached out and lifted the clank into the air as though it weighed nothing.

“-Lady Lucrezia back, and your _precious_ Fräulein Clay is her-” the clank’s shrieking was cut off as Herr Gilgamesh crushed its voicebox. He reached around to its back and, without looking, pulled out a wire, then released his grip. DuPree heard the fragile linkages of its limbs _snap_ as its full weight landed on them, and it crumpled to the floor.

**_“DuPree?”_ ** she heard him snarl as he stalked out of the laboratory, looking every inch his father’s son. **_“She’s all yours.”_ **

Bangladesh DuPree grinned, and reached for a knife as she heard him shouting for his soldiers to begin a top-to-bottom search of the entire castle, and a demand to speak to whoever was next in charge in this place. Time for some good old-fashioned execution by torture.

The thrill of anticipation didn’t quite make up for the horrible disappointment of discovering yet another dead body inside the casket. The clank was still trying to move, so she took it out on that instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop making promises before I have a story finished, because this has _not_ gone the way I planned/anticipated. Sorry, Anevka.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Flight from Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844211) by [RoryMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryMercury/pseuds/RoryMercury)




End file.
